Halle Berry. Her thick black hair was held up with wooden pins, though it would probably fall to her shoulders in a slick of glossy curls if released. A tight green vest with an image of Jay-Z emblazoned on the front accentuated a trim waist and generous bosom.
Heck realised he was gawking. He clamped his mouth shut.
‘See anything you like?’ she asked innocently.
‘Er, no … I mean yeah obviously … er, sorry.’ He smiled awkwardly, placed his cue on the table and headed for the bar.
‘Play with yourself here often?’ she called after him.
He turned and looked back. She was smiling provocatively, as if dying to hear his response.
‘I wouldn’t usually,’ he said. ‘But I’ve never found anyone else who’s up to the job.’
‘That’s a brave boast after what I’ve just seen.’
‘You challenging me, miss?’
She leaned forward and rested her chin on her fist. ‘It would be no contest at all.’
He indicated the vacant table. ‘Rack ’em up.’
She did. And very gallantly, he let her take the first shot. Which proved to be a big mistake. She potted four stripes one after another, only missing a fifth by millimetres. In response, he potted a spot, but the white followed it down. She then embarked on another break, which only ended when she potted the black after bouncing it skilfully off two opposing cushions.
‘You know, all that proves is you’ve had a misspent youth,’ Heck said.
‘My mum wouldn’t need that proving to her.’
‘I’ll bet she wouldn’t.’ He couldn’t help checking her out again, especially those shiny, shapely legs. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘You offering?’
They went through to the bar, where Heck – still unable to believe his luck, because this sort of thing never, ever happened – ordered her a rum with coke, getting himself another pint of bitter and a double Scotch.
‘You drinking to forget, or something?’ she asked, as they settled at a table.
‘I’m drinking because I’m on holiday.’
‘You’re on holiday?’ She sounded surprised, which puzzled him a little.
‘That bothers you?’
‘No, it’s just …’ She smiled again. ‘I’m on holiday too. Sort of.’
He shrugged. ‘Good health.’
The glasses clinked; they both sipped.
‘I’m Lauren,’ she said. ‘I’m from Yorkshire.’
He nodded. Her accent had already given that away – he guessed Huddersfield or Leeds.
‘You’re not a local either, are you?’ she asked. ‘Manchester, is it?’
‘Near there. Bradburn.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
He swilled more beer. ‘Sometimes it feels like that. But I travel a lot, so it’s as broad as long. My name’s Mark, by the way. But friends call me “Heck”.’
‘I know. The barmaid told me.’
‘She did?’ Now Heck was really puzzled. The girl had been interested enough to ask someone his name? That had to be a first. He had a certain rugged appeal – he was aware of that, but he wasn’t the sort of bloke that lookers like this moved in on. Unless? – abruptly his mood changed. He’d been right to remind himself that this sort of thing never, ever happened – because it wasn’t happening now either.
‘This your local?’ she wondered.
‘Suppose so. I don’t get in too often. What can I do for you, anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, love. You’re not on the pull. If you were, you wouldn’t choose me.’
She folded her arms – an unconsciously defensive gesture, he noted. ‘Maybe I just fancied a chat with someone who looked pleasant.’
‘Same as before. You wouldn’t choose me.’
‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’
‘My opinion doesn’t count for much, I’m afraid.’
‘Listen, I’m just trying to be friendly.’
‘No you’re not. You’re up to something. Now if I didn’t know better …’ he glanced again at her legs, and then much more closely at her arms, but couldn’t spot any tell-tale needle-tracks, ‘I’d guess you were the sort of lady who Phil Mackintosh doesn’t normally allow into this establishment.’
She stiffened. ‘I’m not a hooker, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So why’re you acting like one?’ He gave her the gaze he normally reserved for the interview room, his eyes boring into her. She became flustered, ill-at-ease.
‘I just wanted some information?’ she finally said.
‘So it’s not my amazing body you’re interested in. Now there’s a surprise.’
‘About your investigation …’
‘Ahhh.’
She now looked very uncomfortable. ‘How – look, how’s it going?’
Heck finished his beer. He shouted across to the bar for another, before turning back to her. ‘So what is this? Mr Ballamara’s decided that, as the rough stuff doesn’t work, he’ll try a gentler touch?’
‘Eh?’
‘Is that the deal? I deliver, and I get a night in the sack with some quality tail?’
She looked totally baffled.
He leaned forward. ‘Go back to your boss and tell him to shove it. Not only do I not take orders from him, I don’t take bribes either. And frankly I’m surprised anyone does. You know why? Because he’s a walking-talking anachronism, a throwback – a gobshite who runs a few South London boozers and thinks he’s Pablo Escobar. Another year and I dare say he’ll be at the beck and call of some sixteen-year-old Romanian, and no doubt he’ll be grateful for it.’
He pushed his chair back and stood up.
‘For someone who doesn’t rate himself, you don’t half like the sound of your own voice,’ she said.
‘For someone who looks as good as you, you keep very trashy company. And just in case he decides to send the heavies round again, tell him not to waste
